Red Jane
by Nightblade888
Summary: Rated M for gore and violence. He was never in danger of being caught, and they, never in any danger of finding him. Until now. Red John; his reasons, his story, his life, and his end. One Shot


**I do not own The Mentalist or any associated Characters, nor do I own the plot from Cat and Mouse.**

Teresa Lisbon snuck around the strikingly beautiful two story house. She caught up with the more imposing form of Wayne Rigsby as he peered around the corner of the dark red house. Through the dark of the early California Morning, he could make out the rear porch and it's wicker furniture. A stray Calico slunk by the steps leading to the ornate back door. A SWAT team signaled from the other side of brick house, they were ready. Silently the two groups crept towards the door, flashlight beams criss-crossing and dancing about the well cared for wooden steps and immaculate porch.

Lisbon could feel her heart pounding in her chest. She'd done this maneuver many times in her career with the CBI, and had become almost an old pro at breeching a home with a suspect inside. So what made this special? Why was her heart threatening to escape from her chest and run as far away from this dark home as possible? Because Red John was in this house...and so was Patrick Jane..

"GO, GO, GO. CBI!" The Swat commander ordered as his front most agent swung the heavy iron battering ram into the flimsy door lock and opened up the serial murderer's house.

* * *

It had started a week ago. There had been another Red John killing, at least at first glance. For the third time in the last six cases involving the notorious killer, it was a copycat killing. And for the third time in six cases, Patrick Jane had sleuthed out the culprit. It had been the victims abusive ex boyfriend. Jane had seen the toilet seat up and immediately proclaimed that Red John would never use the bathroom in a house he had just murdered someone in.

In the end it turned out to be a pretty easy assignment, the boyfriend was an idiot and had been brow beaten by evidence and had confessed rather quickly.

Currently Lisbon was finishing up her report on the short week she had spent in Santa Monica. As she walked to place the file on her boss's desk, something caught her eye. On Van Pelt's desk was an older case file, actually, there were two files, the victims immediately preceding and following Patrick Jane's wife and daughter. These were confirmed victims of the bloody psychopath, and there was a tiny difference in the trademark smiley face. The mark over the older victim, a twenty-eight year old named Delores Graff, was drawn with large amounts of blood running from the mouth of the creepy signature, as if he were drinking the blood of the poor kindergarten teacher.

Matilda Andrews, on the other hand, was butchered in the usual fashion, arms cut off at the shoulder, knees dislocated and femurs broken. Her feet had been cut off and her genitals had been mutilated. Her sternum had been cut into and cracked open, revealing her internal organs and the heart had been removed and shredded by hand. And as a last gory touch, he surgically removed the skin from their faces, leaving their musculature completely intact. Those were the calling cards of Red John, not just the bloody smiley face, but the downright brutal way he murdered his victims. He beat them with some kind of object, often something he finds in the house, a rolling pin, baseball bat, antique telescope, before removing the arms, breaking the legs and knees and then dissecting the victim while they are still alive.

The difference between the two poor souls, was that for Matilda, there were long streaks of blood coming from the eyes. Red John was...crying?

While there was never a link found between the victims, the MO never changed, no matter who Red John killed. He was a creature of habit, and yet here he deviated.

Lisbon raced back to her computer. She pulled up every case file that mentioned Red John up until the copycat of the last few days. Every single confirmed murder had the crying eyes. There was only one case since that murder that had the old smiley face, and the copycat had been found and murdered by Red John himself. Had he taken offense to this homage? Why not the others?

There was only one other file to look through, the Jane murders. While Red John's work was gruesome enough, to see it done to a sweet 7 year old girl...it turned her stomach. To this day, Melissa Jane was the only juvenile victim of Red John. As painful as it was to see such brutality performed on a child, Isabella, Izzy, Jane, was arguably the most mutilated and bloody corpse in the long list of victims. But right now, Lisbon didn't care about the bodies, other teams had gone over them and found any and everything that was to be gleamed from them. She wanted, needed to see the face.

It was crying.

This was the starting point of Red John's deviation. These murders somehow changed him.

* * *

Red John was escalating. He knew it. It had only been three weeks since his last playmate. He could remember a time when he could, and did, go three or four months between outings. Red John could remember everything. From the weather on the day of his first kill, to the name of the reporter who had broken the news and of course, the names of every one of his victims. From Regina Agnes Barker to Maxine Jacqueline Peterson.

Red John watched as his newest mark kissed her 'boy toy' of two years goodbye. Her name was Patricia Samantha Barnes, and she was a rising star in the Napa police department. But her 'boyfriend'...he was the chief of the Napa PD, Anthony Mickelson. He was roughly thirty miles from his house, where he lived with his wife and twin daughters. They were visiting Mrs. Mickelson's mother and wouldn't be at home. His 2005 Nissan Maxima which was a putrid shade of green, was parked halfway down Mrs. Barnes' driveway, and Red John couldn't wait until he got in and left.

After a sickening five minutes of kissing, Chief Anthony got in and pulled out of the dark driveway. That's when Red John crept around the side of the house and quietly picked the lock to the married Mrs. Barnes' house. Her husband was a traveling salesman who wasn't particularly good at his job, but he'd was out of town for the weekend, and wouldn't be interrupting this little party

"Hello Patty. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance." He whispered as he crept behind the brunette, giving her just enough time to recognize the fact that someone was in her house, before he hit her with the stun gun and carried her off to her own bed. After he tied her down and slipped a silk scarf in her mouth, he took the time to search her house for a suitable device to continue this game. He found a autographed bowling pin from a birthday party a few years back. By the time Red John returned to Mrs. Barnes bedroom, she was conscious enough to open her eyes and look into his own.

A garbled gurgally sound that might have been 'What do you want from me?' Escaped her lips.

"Me? Not much. Maybe if you can answer my question, I'll even let you go." Some more struggling and gasping came from the woman, she couldn't do anything.

"My question is rather simple. Nothing that a good detective or cop shouldn't be able to answer. My question is this: WHY THE FUCK CAN'T YOU INGRATES SEE IT? ARE YOU FUCKING BLIND!"

More gasping and muttered sounds came forth. "Please...don't...I'll give you anything, just please...let me go."

"WHY THE FUCK CAN'T YOU ASSHOLE COPS SEE THE FUCKING PATTERN!"

Red John couldn't even hear Patricia Barnes gasping and wheezing. He was too lost in the thrill, the ecstasy of it all. Even if this lousy excuse for a cop could find his pattern...she wouldn't live.

* * *

Lisbon didn't sleep that night. The entire night was spent pour over the Red John cases from the entirety of his bloody history.

"What makes the Jane murders special?" The dark haired investigator muttered to her self as she rubbed her weary eyes and looked at the sun rising over the surrounding buildings. She really should've gotten some sleep, it wasn't like her not to get at lest a few hours of sleep a night. Being in law enforcement often meant that you often didn't get your eight hours, but she had adjusted so that she could function on as few as three hours.

She turned around when Kimball Cho knocked on her door frame.

"We're heading to Napa. Red John struck again, killed a Napa PD Detective."

"Bastard!" Lisbon swore under her breath as she grabbed her firearm and holster from her desk drawer. "Have you called Jane?" She inquired, pleased when Cho's face showed confusion. "I know I would normally try like hell to keep him away, but when Red John is involved it's useless to try."

"Ain't that the truth." Cho snorted as he pulled out his cell and dialed. The Ringing came from just around the corner. Poking her head over the wall of the nearest cubicle, Lisbon found Patrick Jane playing solitaire on one of the newer agents computers.

"Hey, what's going on?" He asked without looking over his shoulder and moving the four of hearts over top the five of spades.

"Red John visited Napa last night." If anything could get him to pay attention, that would do it. Jane's back stiffened and he spun around as fast as the chair would allow. His blue eye opened wide as he med Lisbon's green ones.

"Last night?" Genuine shock if ever there was such a thing.

"Uh-huh. And if you want past the tape, you coming with us. Now."

"Of course." He smiled and grabbed his suite.

Jane and that damn smile of his.

* * *

Sure enough, Patricia Barnes was quickly proclaimed victim number twenty-four of Red John, the brutality of the scene and the crying eyes of the signature smiley face were proof enough. As usual, Jane seemed a bit down as he perused the crime scene. As usual, Red John was impeccable. He didn't disturb so much as a pot in the kitchen nor had he left any bit of Patricia's face unscathed. There had been only one victim whose face hadn't been sliced off. The only juvenile victim, Melissa Jane. Perhaps he had felt the small girl had suffered enough, having to watch her mother murdered...maybe it was punishment enough.

Whatever the reason, Red John had shown restraint, something he hadn't done since, and certainly not here. He'd also never left another note at the crime scene, never. That was one of the give aways for the copycats. They couldn't resist taunting Patrick Jane. Here, there wasn't a note, just the broken and bloody body of a women taken in the prime of her life. But Jane could feel it, even if this house was as sterile as a medical laboratory, he was getting close to Red John.

* * *

Red John took an opportunity to just think about his work and his life for a moment. He hadn't started off any differently than any other person. His childhood was...normal, at least for a while. Until his father had gotten remarried that whore. His stepmother was a terrible person, only looking out for herself, locking him in the basement for days at time, even a week once. Just so she could schmooze his father. How he hated that woman. How he utterly despised her. How many times had he fantasized over her death? How many times had he planned out her murder? Only to not follow through on those fantasies? To be a good boy. Until she pushed too hard, pushed him over the edge and all his careful planning went out the window. Until he became the bad boy she always told him he was.

As far as his murderous urges, those too started out normally. As normal as a psychopath can be, at least. The first thing he killed was a neighbors newborn puppy. The thing wouldn't have survived anyway, but the feeling that he was in control, no one else...was intoxicating.. He had graduated to stray cats and dogs, once even a raccoon that had wandered into his father's garage. He buried the bodies in an abandoned lot across the street and no one ever found them. After time animals failed to feed his urges as they once had, there wasn't a challenge in killing animals anymore. It was time to step it up to the big leagues.

And then one day that bitch, who dared to presume she had power over him, pushed too hard and he snapped. That night he truly became Red John. Not that anyone would associate him with the death of that cow. He had locked her inside a tool shed and lit it on fire. Of course, he had taught her who she was dealing with before he struck the match. He had always liked fire, to the point that he often considered himself a pyromaniac. It was his friend, it lit his way when he was locked away, it protected him from his stepmother.

Eventually he moved out of his childhood home, not before injecting his father with enough insulin to choke a horse. Those were the first two victims of Red John, and no one knew it. He wandered around for a time, visiting many cities, seeing many sites, killing many people. While Red John was credited with only 24 victims, his actual count was in the sixties. Some of his victims were despicable people, some just rubbed him the wrong way.

And then it happened. The Jane murders. Patrick Jane was a fraud and worse, a media whore. The man was no more a psychic than Red John was a humanitarian. Yet he continued to go on television and spout nonsense about an afterlife 'talking' with peoples departed parents. Presumed to taunt him, Red John, that moronic fool had tried to control a force of nature. Didn't he know that if you flew too close to the sun, you would get burned?

Isabella was making dinner when he'd jimmied the lock on the front door and crept into the impressive home. The daughter, Melissa was at a friends home across the street and wouldn't be getting in the way. If Patrick Jane truly was clairvoyant, he should've seen that his wife was cheating on him. It was obvious to Red John that she wasn't as faithful as she appeared. She had been banging a man by the name of Jonathan Elder for almost a year and a half now.

And then Melissa had shown up. He had kill the little girl too, though as soon as he felt her blood on his hand, felt the life flee her body, he felt the haze lift from his eyes and he saw what he had done. And he couldn't bring himself to mutilate and defile her. He slit her throat with enough force to nearly decapitate the small child, a mercifully ending comparatively. Again, he saw what he had done and it sickened him. He cried and cried over the bodies he had just made. He thought about quiting, never killing again. He even vowed to stop. To go back home and be a better person. But as soon as he walked back downstairs and saw that smug look on Patrick Jane's face, his resolve broke and he stormed over to the computer in the living room and printed out his only contact with police.

As he walked out of the Jane house that night, he came to a realization. He was Red John, he was the best of the best, and he would continue to do this, even if he did feel now.

* * *

There it was! There was a break, an anomaly! Red John had left a clue!

"Lisbon, over here." Patrick Jane was smiling. He was getting closer and closer.

The brown haired senior agent came over and looked at the same fruit bowl the Jane had been fascinated by.

"What am I supposed to be looking at? A missing apple?"

"No. Not the fruit basket, beside it." His grin was shit eating as he showed off his superiority was as annoying as ever.

"So there are some beer bottles out, you're point?" She retorted. It wasn't unheard of for a women to have a couple of beers, hell Lisbon herself was known to enjoy curling up on her couch with a couple of micro brews.

"Not just beers, Corona, and look, inside, lime."

"Yeah, so? If they were drinking Corona without lime I'd be worried, what's interesting about it?" Cho spoke up, looking over Lisbon's shoulder.

"He means, if there are wedges in the bottles, where's the rest of the lime?" Lisbon filled in, opening up the sliding compartment that held the small trashcan and found the juiced remains of not one, but two limes on top of the assorted banana peels and junk mail.

"Why juice two limes?" Cho asked, looking at Jane for answers. The dirty blond opened his mouth to answer but was beaten to it by a member of the CSU team.

"Inviable ink. I used lemon juice when I was a kid, but lime would work pretty well too. See, you heat up the paper that you wrote on, and the writing would appear, pretty neat trick, especially when you're five."

"Get me an alternative light source unit here and we'll start combing the house for anything that looks like it might have been used as canvas." Lisbon ordered as Rigsby and Van Pelt spread out and began to photograph and pickup any scraps of paper they could find.

"Remember, Red John uses walls as his canvas, so I'd search those first." Jane offered, taking a look at a likely candidate, exactly opposite the bloody smiley face that stood over Patricia's body.

Sure enough, when Lisbon took the ALS to the opposite wall, there was a message.

FIND THE PATTERN, FUCKERS!

So there was a pattern, they just had to find it.

* * *

No one on the CBI team got any sleep that night, everyone was pouring over every file on every victim Red John had ever killed. All the victims were women, their ages ranged from 7 to sixty seven and ran the gamete from Caucasian, to Mexican, Jewish to Hindu and from left handed to right handed, to one women missing an arm entirely. There wasn't a psychological profile to be built, there just weren't any common threads besides gender.

And yet there was supposed to be a pattern to this trail of corpses? How were they supposed to find a pattern when every detail of every murder scene stayed the same? Red John was clinical, he never deviated he didn't change.

He didn't experiment. The thought struck Lisbon like a lightning bolt. Even if she wasn't a psychologist, and had no more instruction than a high schooler with a morbid fascination with murder mysteries, she knew that serial murderers didn't just start out clinical, they evolved from a point. They changed until they got what they wanted from their kills. Red John knew what he wanted, he didn't need to practice anymore, he'd done his homework long ago, hadn't he.

"Jane!" She yelled from her office and waited for the consultant to poke his head in. Thankfully he didn't keep the exhausted woman long.

"Yeah?"

"Look through all of the unsolved murder files that are assailants unknown,and look for any links you can find between them and Red John. He didn't start with the first victim, there were others before. Start with the women, but keep open to anything. People like him take a while to get set in their patterns."

Initially she thought he was going to refuse, if the look on his face was any indication, he still must be reliving the previous crime scene, not to mention his wife's.

"Yeah, sure thing." His grin seemed a bit forced, not his usual self and he quickly backed out the door and sauntered back to his desk. It seemed that the more that Lisbon watched, the more she worried about her consultant. He was looking less and less like himself each day this case wore on. She doubted if he'd survive another Red John murder if he couldn't find retribution.

Checking her watch, she decided to grab some sleep while she could. Even for someone with the mental acuity of Patrick Jane, it would take him a long time to go through all the unsolved murders she had assigned him. She drifted into unconsciousness easily after just a minute, to dreams of puzzles and cyphers.

* * *

He was so close. So very very close to the end. One last body and Red John would disappear into the ether. What a dozy this would be too! A man! He would kill a man for the first time since his worthless father. A once proud man, a good strong role-model, who had been his role-model once, until he had fallen into that bitch's clutches. That cunt! The memory of her still enraged him. It had gotten him through those early kills, his blue period if you will. None of those early kills measured up to her. She was a high he couldn't conquer, not that he didn't try. They were sloppy, the first four or five kills. Of course, sloppy for him was immaculate for everyone else. No one suspected him, no one connected them to him.

He hit his stride around victim number nine, a 'hot' brunette from Arkansas. She was a prostitute, a rather well off prostitute, but a whore none the less. He had enjoyed flaying her more than anyone since his mother. It was her, Anna Quinn, that brought the stun gun into the MO. You see, her pimp was very controlling, almost as much as Red John himself was, and had given his cash cow a panic button. He had taught those fools who was really in charge that night.

Victim sixteen, Vivian Stuart, had introduced him to facial mutilation. She had been a very successful, white collar corporate excec, who had a taste for perfectly tailored pants suites and expensive perfume. The small town in Idaho, where she'd been vacationing with her boyfriend, was still haunted by his trip. He had visited once, and was pleased to the point of a Cheshire grin that they still whispered amongst themselves about his work.

Yes, he had killed many women before Red John became a house hold bogey man, and would kill many more after Red John became the next Jeffrey Dahmer, a horrifying figure of the past, but irrelevant today. You see, once he killed this last person, killed this man, Red John would cease to be, and he'd move onto his next persona, reinventing his MO, redefining himself and his methods. All he needed was for the heat to die down a bit from his last outing, for his fucking boss to get off his back, like she could order him around. Maybe he'd make her a victim once Red John was retired. Until he was, he couldn't touch her, but he wouldn't have to wait too much longer .

* * *

Lisbon woke a few hours later, feeling a bit less tired and no more insightful into the case she was being forced to deal with. Maybe it was the lack of sleep, but suddenly she started to blank on the name of the victim...Sandra Oh? No, that was that actress...um...shit. Patricia something-or-other.

Grabbing the file from underneath where her head had been she flicked her wrist and it opened easily. Patricia Samantha Barnes, that was it. The twenty fourth victim of Red John, the sixteenth to feature the crying eyes. The first was Andrea Kramer, then Keisha Mouser and on and on.

Still, those crying eyes haunted Lisbon, every thing she had learned as an officer of the law, everything she knew was telling her that those eyes were a key, somehow, it was important, but for the life of her, she couldn't figure out why.

Isabella Jane and Melissa Jane...the first victim of a crying psychopath. Who was the next one? It must be the lack of sleep, she couldn't even keep recent victims names in order. Before she forgot any more of them, she started writing names of victims down, in order of their deaths.

Andrea Sara Kramer

Keisha Samantha Mouser

Two people with Samantha in their name, was that coincidence or a pattern?

Then there had been Theresa Mathews Jameson, Holly Lilly McKenzie, Polly Emma Grenier, Gwen Ashley Mantros, Maria Sara Vargas, Delores Sandra Graff and then came the crying eyes.

Isabella Whitney Jane

Melissa Penny Jane

When she looked at it like that, it looked like the names made the word I'm.

'I'm a psychotic bastard.' Lisbon huffed to herself. There wasn't a pattern...no. It couldn't be...that...there it was! Holy shit, the pattern! It was in the names!

**I**sabella Whitney Jane

**M**elissa Penny Jane

Matilda **U**rsula Andrews

Rina Bebe **R**amirez

**D**emona Rachele Ritle

Regina **E**rica Allison

Terry Jameson **R**eynolds

**E**stelle Gertrude Garrison

Paula **D**anielle Paulson

**I**da Jean Whittier

**W**endy Josephine McGary

**A**lice Erin Rosen

Molly **N**atalie Timms

Anna Stahl **D**onner

**M**abel Sally Jones

**P**atricia Samantha Barnes

It spelled out, 'I MURDERED IW AND MP- There was a break there. IW and MP, would be initials, but to who? They could be anyone, was Red John confessing to other murders? Were they short sheeting him and he was taking offense?

No. Looking at the top of the list, IW and MP jumped out at her. Izzy Whitney Jane and Melissa Penny Jane were the first victims to have crying eyes, they started the list.

J would end it. Someone with the a J in their name would end the list, they just had to figure out who. She didn't bother to call her team in and tell them what she had found, she just grabbed her phone and dialed someone she'd hope to leave out of this.

* * *

Red John could feel it. Somehow he just seemed to know that Lisbon, that cunt that dared call herself an investigator, was close. Oh how it sickened him. To think that someone as inept as her might get lucky and discover his identity made him physically ill. It didn't matter though. He watched the end of the puzzle from across the street. He watched J, memorized everything about him, his walk, his speech patterns, his facade that he put on around his wife and kids. The happy husband, the man above reproach. The man who could do no wrong. The man who started things he couldn't possibly comprehend.

* * *

She knew she'd grab some flak from the higher ups, not to mention her own team for keeping them out of the loop, but Lisbon didn't care. Getting the FBI involved, even unofficially, was considered a sin to the CBI. They didn't need help from the Feebies, only for the Feds to take all the credit. She needed a forensic psychologist to bounce her theory off of, and the only one she knew was an old college boyfriend who was working for the 'evil empire'.

She made notes of what she knew and suspected after she hung up on her ex.

Red John was all about control.

He was an opportunist, It didn't matter what the women looked like, as long as they fit the list.

He didn't pick specific women, by using items from their own homes, and killing them in their own bedrooms, he made the kill personal.

He was a sexist with a deep loathing of women. The genital mutilation removed, at least in his mind, the only way that a woman could have power over a man.

He didn't take trophies, so he either had an excellent memory, or he could video tape the kill, and that replaced the need for a trophy.

She suspected that whatever caused him to become violent was connected with either his mother, or mother figure. She brow beat him and likely his father and dominated the household. He grew to resent the type of power she had over him, and so he became someone who was never out of control. It was agreed that he had done his experimenting long ago and no one seemed to know about it, most likely, his first victim was the woman that caused him to turn out this way.

All his murders were rage killings, something about the women had angered him enough to kill. The more violent and gruesome the murder, the more angry he had been at the victim. Well, the Jane murders were the bloodiest so far, but that was because he wanted to teach Patrick a lesson, right? That was the most likely answer, it made sense, Patrick was spouting off about the case on national TV, that had to piss Red John off, right? It was the logical conclusion.

Except that Red John wasn't logical. His pattern was a sentence that told the Senior agent nothing she didn't already know. Why cop to murdering two people that he was already known to have killed? Was there a chance that he didn't kill them? But then who? Any why hadn't Jane seen it as a copycat?

No. Theresa admonished herself and shook her dark head. Red John was definitely responsible for the Jane murders, but if it wasn't about Patrick running his mouth, then it was about Isabella? She had to know all she could about the woman.

* * *

This was it. The time was now, no more waiting, no more reprieves. Red John moves easily and quietly through the dark back yard of J's house. He tested the door knob, only to find it locked. His gloved hands easily pulled the spare key from under the doormat and the door gave way. The white painted door swung open without making a noise, oh the joys of suburban living! And like that, Red John was in the house, in the final house of his career. By the time he left this house, Red John would be just another bogey man!

The poor bastard was alone in his office, his wife and two kids were out at a friends birthday party. What a lovely sight the sprog would return to, eh? He might just have to stick around to see that.

As he was sneaking around the kitchen, he saw them. The fucking CBI, California Bureau of Incompetents. Somehow they managed to find his mark. At the worst possible moment too. That gorilla, Rigsby was running towards the front door he realized.

The pounding on the door brought the brown haired man from upstairs down in a hurry.

Red John knew his plans were foiled. The CBI would take his final mark away from him until he was caught or killed and he wouldn't be able to get to him. Even if he charmed his way in, which he was more than capable of, if they had found his mark, they knew who he was. It was time to go on the run. He quickly slipped out the back door, just as easily as he came in, and then he was gone. Vanished without a trace, at least, that's what he thought. Someone had seen him, someone who was very interested in him.

* * *

When he opened the door, Jonathan Elder hadn't expected to be pulled outside by his shirt, nor did he expect to be hastily shoved into the back of a CBI van and whisked away from his suburban home. Before his mind had even gotten a chance to catch up with his body, the red head who was in the passenger seat was talking at him.

"Mr. Elder, are you OK?" She asked, waiting for him to form a coherent thought.

"What's going on?" He mumbled dumbly, only just know realizing that he had been abducted from his front porch.

"I'm Agent Van Pelt, He's Agent Cho, we're with the CBI, we believe that there is a credible threat to your life. We're taking you back to our offices, we've got some questions for you to answer."

"What about my family, are they in danger too?"

"No sir." Grace replied. "Red John was only after you."

* * *

Lisbon and Rigsby moved through the Elder home quickly, making sure they were alone before beginning their search for evidence. Where Jane was, Theresa didn't know, but his skills would certainly be helpful now. They were so close, she was sure that Jonathan Elder was the J at the end of the list, but with only her hunch, she didn't have a leg to stand on if she wanted a warrant to get into this house. Looking around the back door, she couldn't find any signs of forced entry, but the barest glint of metal from underneath the doormat caught her eye. She moved the worn down mat and saw that there was an outline of the key in some dirt, from where the key had lay until recently.

Red John had been here, they had just missed him! He had been in the house when they rolled up! Somewhere in this area, Red John was running from them. At this moment, he was running from them. At this moment, he was his most dangerous.

* * *

As he escaped the neighborhood, Red John had seen something. Just from the corner of his eye, but it was there. The more he saw, the more his mind began turning. Jonathan Elder was out of his grasp, probably for ever, but...yes...it would work.

* * *

Lisbon's cell phone rang twenty minutes after they had cleared the Elder household.

"Lisbon." She answered, flipping the cover open.

"Elder confirmed your suspicion. He admitted to having the affair."

"So, he was the J after all." Lisbon sighed. Now they had to start all over again. Red John would continue to hunt until he found another suitable candidate. He'd broken form and gone for a man this time, god only knows how many people have names that start with the letter J. There were all the Jerome's and Jenny's and-shit!

"Rigsby!" She yelled up the stairs. "Get me a swat team, I know where Red John is heading!"

* * *

'And to think,' Lisbon pondered as she raced up the stairs of Patrick Jane's home. 'That was just five hours ago.'

There was no noise from inside the ghost like home, no screams no cries. But she could smell it, blood, lots of it.

As the inserted team cleared the first three rooms off the stairs, she could hear the grunts of pain, the sobbing coming from the master bedroom. He was still alive! Leaving the rest of the team, Lisbon opened the door and viewed a sight she had only seen in completion.

Patrick Jane lay on his bed, the same bed he had found his wife and daughter on, his feet had been sawed off and his chest had been flayed open. There were tears in his eyes as he met Lisbon's.

"I killed them." He said. "I murdered IW and MPJ. Did you get that?" He sobbed as he continued to pull his own skin from his rib cage.

J was for Jane, or John. They were the same person.

"Jane, stop that!" She ordered, hoping beyond hope that he'd stop. She felt her stomach flip and flop and threaten to release all the food she hadn't eaten over the past few days.

"To think." He choked out. "That it'd be you that got me." He squinted at her. "You had help. Don't lie, I can tell when you lie." About the only thing that Patrick Jane hadn't lied about was his abilities. He really was one hell of an observer.

"I'm not a psychologist, you knew that." She replied, grimacing as he began to remove the left side of his chest.

"And you called that Ex of your's, he's FBI, right?" Even as he flayed himself open, Patrick Jane was infuriating. "Thank god, I can't stand the idea of you getting lucky." For the first time, Lisbon saw the anger in his eyes, anger at her.

"Why are you doing this, if you wanted to repent for killing your wife and daughter, you could've just turned yourself in?"

"That whore meant nothing to me!" He yelled, the scalpel in his right hand pointed right at Lisbon's face, blood dripping off the razor sharp implement. "I've killed over sixty people, the **only** one I care about, is Melissa."

The tension in the room was dense. The SWAT team had their guns trained on Jane, who wasn't moving anywhere, and Theresa Lisbon stood in front of them. The more she stared at Jane, the harder he stared back, burning her face into his head. He felt angry, pissed off, this..woman dares come in here and interrupt him?! Dare to presume that she knows anything about him? She only got lucky that she had fucked a shrink! Just like every other woman, getting whatever they want by spreading their legs! He couldn't take her eyes anymore.

"DIE!" He yelled as he reared back to throw the scalpel at his nemesis. The steel never left his hand. In the second it had taken to rise up, Lisbon had put a round right between his eyes. Right through that brain of his that he was so proud of.

"Call the ME. Red John is dead." Lisbon turned around and walked outside.

**

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**(A:N: First off, I don't profess to have any knowledge of psychology, so that little profile was completely made up by me. Second of all, I do not mean to offend any women out there, but as I see it, Red John is extremely sexist and I had to portray him as such. Thirdly, if I was wrong about any of the facts as given by the TV show, I apologize. In all the episodes I have seen, they have shown very little of a Red John crime scene. **

**Anyway, this was a one shot, heavily inspired by both the Mentalist and the Alex Cross book, Cat and Mouse. I hope I did a good job, and I would love to see what you think of it. Please review and let me know.)**


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